Page 82 of All Our Missing Pieces

I would have to leave Damask Square.

FIFTY

Beatrice looked around the apartment, her hands on her hips. The pictures had been removed from their hooks on the wall, swaddled in bubble wrap and stacked in a corner. The children’s clothes had been laundered, neatly folded and placed in their suitcases; their cabin bags were equally carefully packed with drinks, snacks, crayons and paper, their favourite teddies perched on top ready to accompany them on the journey. What remained was only what belonged to the landlord, not the family – larger items of furniture; crockery and glassware – and Peter’s clothes and enough towels and bedlinen for him to use during his handover period.

There was nothing more for her to do here. Well – one thing. The most important thing.

She heard the swish of the elevator doors and Frances came in with Slate and Parker, raindrops sparkling on their hair.

‘I went down the big slide, Bibi,’ Slate told her proudly.

‘You did?’ Beatrice squatted down in front of him. ‘That was brave. Were you scared?’

‘A bit. But Mommy was waiting for me at the bottom and it was my last chance.’

Parker thumped down on the floor, her thumb in her mouth. She’d been tetchy all day; Beatrice hoped she wasn’t coming down with something, but suspected it was just the knowledge of impending change.

‘Library,’ she said, her voice muffled.

Beatrice stroked her hair. She’d put it up with a new hair tie that morning, brushing it carefully, conscious that it was the last time she would do it.

‘There’s no time to go to the library,’ she said gently. ‘Your daddy’s going to be home soon and then you’re going to go to the airport and get on an airplane and fly back to America.’

‘The place looks great, Bibi,’ Frances said. ‘I’m so grateful for all your hard work.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Beatrice replied automatically, scrambling to her feet. ‘I think I’m all done here. The courier isn’t due until the morning but I’ll leave my key with the concierge – he knows to expect them.’

‘That’s right – there’s no need for you to hang around,’ Frances said, and Beatrice filled in the rest of the sentence in her mind: It’ll only upset the kids.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Come on, Parker and Slate, give me a cuddle.’

She pulled the children towards her, pressing their small bodies against hers, breathing in the smell of them for the last time. She’d never see Slate ride a pony, never read Parker another bedtime story. Within a few weeks, they’d probably have forgotten all about her.

The pain was intense – almost physical. But she couldn’t let the children see it; she had to stay strong and calm for them. She held on to them for as long as she dared, then quickly kissed each of their heads in turn and stood up.

‘This is for you.’ Smiling, Frances handed her a small bag, duck-egg blue, printed with the Tiffany logo. ‘It’s just a trinket, to say thank you from all of us.’

‘Thank you.’ Beatrice leaned in for a kiss, breathing in Frances’s Shalimar scent, feeling the sharpness of her jaw against her cheek. ‘I’ll treasure it. I’ve… It’s been wonderful, getting to know Slate and Parker. And you, of course. So thank you for that, too.’

Frances looked at her, her gaze astute. She knows, Beatrice realised. She knows exactly how I feel, but neither of us can acknowledge it.

‘I’d best be off, then,’ Beatrice said.

‘You take care, honey.’

Beatrice nodded miserably and Frances leaned in, patted her cheek and whispered to her, ‘Don’t be too sad.’

Almost blinded by tears, Beatrice turned away and pressed the button to open the elevator. There was no looking back now – no going back. Even a final glance at the children, a final hug, would only postpone the inevitable parting by a few seconds. There was no point. She stepped in, keeping her back to the elevator doors, hearing the swish and soft thunk as they closed.

Down at street level, she said her goodbyes to the concierge, leaving him with the neatly printed list of instructions and contact numbers she’d prepared as well as her key to the apartment. Then she walked slowly out into the rain.

It was only four o’clock, but already dark. She had nothing to do and nowhere to go. She felt bereft, alone with her sadness. She let her legs carry her automatically towards the bus stop, barely noticing the brightly lit windows of the library as she passed it.

Then its door swung open and, glancing reflexively over, she saw Neil emerging, his leather satchel slung over his shoulder, a knitted beanie pulled down over his shaven head. He recognised Beatrice too and waved, jogging over to catch her up.

‘Hey, Beatrice. Long time no see. How’re you doing?’ he asked.

Beatrice told him, just managing to keep her tears at bay.